


Last Tango in Nargothrond

by havisham



Series: The Nargothrond Series [7]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Breathplay, M/M, Meanwhile a crock of butter silently sweats, Poor Life Choices, Self-Destruction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-28 14:29:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5094131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes (at least) two to utterly destroy a city.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Tango in Nargothrond

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sath/gifts).



> So this happened. Sath, I thought your Túrin/Orodreth prompt was utterly brilliant, but I didn't really stick to it very faithfully. Nonetheless, I hope you like it!

When Beren had come to Nargothrond, stinking of death and despair, almost as bowed as one aged among his kind, Orodreth had barely managed to hide his horror at his cousin Lúthien’s choice. He had stifled those thoughts, of course. To do otherwise would be to support _them_ , those twice-damned sons of Fëanor, over his much-beloved brother. 

 

(Oh Findarato! If he could be here now, and not dead, and take back the crown that weighed so heavily on Orodreth’s head. Had Beren been worth the sacrifice, the loss? It was hardly fair, the question, but Orodreth knew the truth -- and it was a no.) 

In any event, Orodreth had never quite gotten over his initial bewilderment. How could an Elf love something so fragile, so frail as Man? 

And then Mormegil came. 

Oh, yes, yes, he used a different name, but Orodreth, despite his other flaws, was not a fool. His informants at Thingol’s court had been full of news of the King’s ward for some years past. Orodreth had known about Mormegil, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality of him. 

For Mormegil was not like Beren at all.

Mormegil was _beautiful._

Orodreth’s mind had a tendency to wander, especially during long council meetings on how many soldiers they were to conscript for Mormegil’s bridge project. It was not that he thought the issue unimportant, but the fact was, that some of the council-members were so against the idea of the bridge to begin with that they would take more of the time allotted for discussions to rail against them. Orodreth personally disliked such outbursts -- they seemed to him particularly tone-deaf, given the fact that Mormegil’s plan was popular with both himself and the rest of the city. 

And then there were others who agreed that the bridge was, of course, a brilliant plan, but only quibbled with how many soldiers ought to be posted on it when the building was completed. These proponents seemed far more anxious to see their fellow lords raise up more men than they were prepared to contribute themselves. 

How Orodreth hated council-meetings like these. Such maddeningly circular arguments, such pointless posturing! And all for what? To convince him? _He_ had already made up his mind. 

So he stopped listening, and cast a look in Mormegil’s direction. Mormegil sat, slightly hunched over -- his shoulders too broad for his chair, designed for slimmer, Elven bodies. He was frowning, slightly, as he usually did when others disagreed with him. 

He did not look angry so much as puzzled by the speaker's denseness, as if he could not believe that someone would waste precious time on such trivial things. His face and his body were not like marble, but instead he was in constant motion, though beautifully shaped. 

He was fascinating, and so lovely. He could have been of the Noldor, he had the requisite gray eyes and dark hair (things Orodreth himself lacked; in his own looks, he favored his mother's kin) -- but Mormegil was no Elf. Looking at the stubble growing darker as the day passed, Orodreth felt a pulse of excitement that sped through his veins. Men changed, Orodreth thought.

Suddenly feeling guilty, Orodreth looked away and cleared his throat. The conversation stopped, everyone turned to look at him. Orodreth smiled. “Gentlemen, the hour grows late. Perhaps we should adjourn for the night?” 

The councillors rose, their chairs scraped against the floor. They milled around the room, all of them -- save for Orodreth, who remained seated, and Túrin, who stood and began to pace slowly. Soon, the two of them were alone, which was as Orodreth had wished. 

He wanted to touch Mormegil right away, but he restrained himself and rearranged his limbs into a more relaxed pose. He would allow Mormegil to make the first move, as always. But Mormegil did not seem to particularly want to make the move. He moved through the room in circles, like a caged beast. Orodreth watched him, expecting him to leave. 

But he did not. 

Orodreth knew why. 

All throughout his very long life, Orodreth had been cursed with an imprudent tongue. No matter what the circumstances were, he could be depended on to make it worse. He did so now, as he sat back in his chair with a sigh. “Túrin, my dear, it will be all right, you know. Most of the council are inclined to give you whatever you want. Come, sit here with me.” 

Mormegil whirled around and faced him, a half-sneer on his face. “I would rather not.” 

With some impatience, Orodreth said, “Then come to my rooms tonight.”

Mormegil did not say yes and he did not say no. Instead, he turned and left, without another word. 

*

Bitterly lonely, he was, and had been since Finrod had died. Sometimes Orodreth felt as if he could not quite breathe here, in Nargothrond, under so many layers of stone. He had not been meant for this -- not meant to be king, not meant to be here. Finrod, he missed desperately -- his brother’s wit, his kindness, his beauty. Finrod had been the only one in their family that had indulged Orodreth’s passions. 

For Orodreth had been meant for the open sky, for rugged landscapes that faded into washes of blue. Sometimes, he could see feel it still, memories of climbing the Pélori, hoping to catch a glimpse of the world outside of Aman’s borders. His hands traced the seams of long-vanished rock, clutching at them -- only he was slipping now, his rope zipping out of his hands -- 

 

Startled, he cried out his brother’s name. 

Orodreth woke, sitting bolt upright in his bed. Someone was knocking on his door. He thought of sending whoever it was away with a flea in their ear. But instead, he slouched over to the door and opened it. He was not entirely surprised when he saw Mormegil there. 

But Mormegil did seem surprised at how easily Orodreth could haul him in, Orodreth knew. He was stronger than he looked, though in terms of sheer brawn, Mormegil could have easily overpowered him. Mormegil looked at him; his eyes were wild, haunted. 

“You are thinking of him,” Orodreth said, softly, “your friend, whom neither you nor Gwindor will speak of. Do I remind you of him?” 

“No.” 

Orodreth not let the short reply dissuade him from speaking. He smiled. “That is well, for despite my looks, I am of the Noldor and we are a proud people. I have no wish to be mistaken for anyone else.” 

Mormegil looked at him for a long time. His lips twisted into a savage grin. “Pride? I see only how you hate yourself!”

“I do,” Orodreth said and tenderly, he went on. “It is the same for you, is it not, Túrin?” 

Mormegil -- Túrin -- stepped back, as if he had been struck. “Gwindor told you.” 

“I did not need Gwindor to know. What a poor king you must take me for if you imagined that I had not heard of you?” 

“You wish me gone, then,” Túrin said, clenching his jaw, his hands balled into fists. 

Orodreth trailed a finger down his cheek, delighting in the slight rasp of Túrin’s stubble against the pad of his fingertips. “No, of course not. And I keep my own council, I will not give you away.” 

It seemed then that Túrin finally made up his mind. He pushed Orodreth against the wall, leaning against him. Túrin was taller than him, though not by much -- and broader, by much. 

Túrin stripped Orodreth methodically of his bed clothes -- made of linens so finely woven that they crumpled to the group like silk -- and then stood back, looking over his work. Orodreth flushed at the scrutiny, but ignored his impulse to cover himself. Instead, he looked back at Túrin, his mouth shaping out words that he could not quite articulate -- yet. 

Eyebrows raised, Túrin said, in a mild tone, “What is it? Does the King of Nargothrond wish to be taken like an animal?” 

Orodreth could not help but lick his lips. “What makes you say that?” 

“A -- friend in Doriath once said that -- to sleep with me would be akin to bestiality.” 

“Quite a friend.” 

“Yes -- I killed him later,” Túrin stumbled over his last few words. Whatever smoothness he had been aiming for was lost among his muttering. 

Orodreth leaned back, satisfied that he was about to make a terrible mistake. “Come then,” he murmured, hooking a leg around Túrin. Túrin untangled himself and flipped Orodreth around until his face was pressed against the wall. Orodreth moaned, feeling Túrin's still-clothed body rub against him. 

Túrin kneaded his buttocks with an ungentle hand, and Orodreth found himself grinding against the wall. The wall, which was hard stone, and porous, and scratched against his skin. “A bed,” he gasped, “Túrin, come to my bed, please.” 

“Soft,” Túrin scoffed. He marched Orodreth over to his bed and pushed him down. Orodreth turned, his back against the mattress. He beckoned Túrin closer and closer Túrin came, until he was between Orodreth’s legs, hands squeezing against his thighs. 

Orodreth had not done this in so long, not since his wife had left him. And that had been so long ago that he could hardly stand now, the terrible intensity of having someone with him, touching him in places that had gone so long untouched by another’s hand. 

But that was not to say that Túrin’s touches were gentle, far from it. But Orodreth took them -- his touches, his words, far more crude than Mormegil even at his most impassioned, his mouth, biting and vicious -- was almost more than Orodreth could take. He half-expected for Túrin to use spit and push in, but instead, Túrin grasped both of their cocks together, eyes not leaving Orodreth's, as they moved together. 

Orodreth could not help it, he gasped, the drag of Túrin's cock against his own. 

“Do you have anything--?” Túrin muttered, so low that Orodreth could hardly hear him, over the pounding in his own head. 

Orodreth blinked, before he nodded. “In the washroom, there should be a pot of unguent next to the washing bowl.” 

“Well,” Túrin said, pulling away, and folding his arms against his chest. “You'll have to get it, if you want it.” 

Orodreth sat up with a huff and fetched the pot. 

*

Túrin did not believe in gentle lovemaking. That was well, for Orodreth did not either. Still, there was a moment in the middle of it, as Túrin thrust into him, hard, and then wrapped his arms around Orodreth’s neck -- that Orodreth felt a spark of fear within with him. That fear translated over to want, sharp and hungry, and Orodreth found himself gripping Túrin’s arms with his own, not letting Túrin relinquish his hold. 

If he had been a mortal man, Orodreth supposed, he would have soon passed out. As it was, his vision flickered, a little, before he let go -- so Túrin could. 

He watched Túrin’s face, recognized the agony and joy as his own. He came soon after. 

*

Afterwards, Túrin collapsed next to him and and fell immediately to sleep. But Orodreth was wakeful, studying the ways the tiny white stones were embedded in the ceiling; they looked like stars. This room had once been his brother’s bedroom -- was still the bedroom of the King of Nargothrond. He felt, as he always did when thinking of Finrod, the familiar stab of pain and longing. But now, that feeling was distant, as if it was happening to someone else. 

Meanwhile, Túrin stirred beside him and woke. He tensed immediately, before he remembered where he was. He eyed Orodreth dubiously. “Why are you smiling?” 

“Am I?” Orodreth made a pass over his face. “Perhaps it's because I haven't felt so well since the calamity.” 

“Which calamity is that?”

“My brother’s death -- you did not know my brother, of course, so you cannot fathom the loss. My brother was the best of all us -- the most beautiful, the most kind, the most intellectual, the most fierce --” 

“All right, all right --” 

“And though I adored him, worshiped him since my earliest days, when it came time for me to follow him into the dark, I turned away away from him. I feared what would happen if I left my daughter and Gwindor alone with those -- scavengers we call kin. My reasons were good, but my beloved still died alone…” 

Túrin nodded. Thoughtfully, he said, “It was less complicated for me, when it came to Beleg. He was my friend and I killed him.”  
It seemed to Orodreth that the darkness seemed to draw around them. If he had ever been gifted with even a touch of foresight, he would perhaps been struck with dread. But Orodreth did not, and moreover, would not see it even if it was right in front of him. Instead, he watched Túrin fall asleep again and thought only of the past, of things that could never be helped.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my betas, Z and E!


End file.
